No Comment
by Fleur27
Summary: Written for the vmfic gameon community. The challenge was to create an article that focused on Logan.


Warning: This is AU and does not follow canon strictly on a few points.

Author's Note: Many thanks to celtic_flicka, who was my kind and knowledgeable beta for this. Any mistakes are my own, because I was too stubborn to listen to her.

My inspiration for this story comes from the first fanfic I ever read: Texas Forever. I loved the format and the writing. When I saw the prompt in the vm_gameon community, I knew I'd found my chance to try out the format.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here and am just doing this for fun.

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To a person, all of Logan Echolls' friends refuse to be interviewed until he gives his blessing. It's the sort of adherence one usually sees in mafia minions or squirrelly cult members. But in this case, it's not fear that holds them back. Logan's friends are motivated by loyalty and love.

Their reluctance is understandable. Logan has not consented to an interview or given a quotable statement in at least twenty years.

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Trista Teller was known in the entertainment journalism world as the Barbara Walters of print. She had a special knack for snagging the high profile interview, doing extensive research, asking unique questions, and then assembling the raw material into exquisite stories. Her persistence and charm got her in the door with many reluctant celebrities, but Logan Echolls had been slamming that door in her face on a regular basis.

After Lynn jumped to her death, Trista caught up with Logan in the parking lot at the beach. As he got his surfboard down from the top of his SUV, Trista started her pitch.

"Logan, I have an editor buddy at People who heard a rumor that you don't believe your mother actually killed herself."

He paused and looked at her suspiciously. "Is that so? From what I hear, most print editors are a bunch of old drunks, so I wouldn't exactly call them reliable witnesses."

"If you're looking for her, a story in a weekly magazine with those circulation numbers could really help. Drum up all sorts of leads. Maybe even find her."

"Let me check my schedule. I'm pretty busy but it looks like I've got two options: when hell freezes over and half-past never. Which one of those works for you?"

Logan tucked his surfboard under his arm and headed out toward the ocean without looking back.

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Growing up, Logan Echolls was no stranger to the limelight. He was a regular on red carpets, accompanying his father in a spiffy tux, like Aaron's own Mini-Me. Although he didn't give formal interviews, it was common for the youngster to offer a comment on his father's latest movie or other accomplishments.

Until the age of ten, Logan could always be counted on for a precocious, adorable quip about his father. When asked now why he stopped making comments, Logan shrugs and his mouth quirks up on one side. "I don't know. Tween angst?"

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It was Logan's job to fetch the newspaper each morning and he could always tell what was going on in his father's life by the number of reporters lined up at the gate. A huge group meant something big had happened. An award nomination. Rumors of a new role. An alleged indiscretion.

Logan despised the fact that the reporters hung around like a pack of hungry dogs. He hated that they'd crashed his tenth birthday party. And yet, somehow, he found himself powerless to resist talking to them. He had to admit that there was something insidiously intoxicating about having someone hanging on your every word, paying attention to you, writing down what you said.

"Logan, did you hear your dad was chosen as People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive?" shouted one of the reporters.

Logan shook his head as he picked up the paper.

"What do you think of that?" called another reporter. Flashbulbs went off in Logan's eyes, temporarily blinding him.

"I think People magazine wouldn't find him so sexy if they knew he had to pluck his ear and nose hairs every time he shaves." It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. But then, he never could resist a reporter. Or a bad idea.

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Despite Logan's reticence, the American public remained fascinated with the Echolls family. Even when he found himself embroiled in murder trials, Logan remained steadfastly committed to not talking about his personal life, his family, or his aspirations.

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"Why do I have to do this again?" asked Logan, loosening the knot on his tie.

Veronica pushed his hands away and slid the knot back into place. Then she gently pulled on the tie, bringing him down for a quick kiss.

"Because your lawyer said it was the best way to appeal for witnesses to what happened on the bridge that night. The Times has a large readership and we can control the circumstances a lot better than in a television interview."

"Can't I just take out an ad in The Times then? Maybe a nice personal ad: Desperate defendant seeks witness to events on bridge. Must like long walks on the beach, sunsets, dogs, and telling the truth."

"You can trust Trista Teller. She won't do a hatchet job on you. If your lawyer trusts her, you can trust her."

"Well, trusting a lawyer is usually a mistake. Trusting a journalist is always a mistake."

"Spoken like a true cynic," replied Veronica, smiling up at him.

Logan reached out and put his hands on her waist. "Realist, please. If you must label me, at least be accurate about it."

The doorbell rang and Veronica slipped from his grasp. Seconds later she returned, followed by Trista, a willowy woman with a crazy mane of untamed black curls.

Logan shook hands with the woman and then sat down. He pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket.

"My list of demands," he said, handing it over to the reporter.

Trista scanned the list. If she objected to any of Logan's stipulations, her face did not betray it. Logan made a mental note to never play poker with this woman.

"I can only ask you about what happened on the bridge that night?"

"Yes," said Logan, easing back and putting his hands behind his head, trying to appear more relaxed than he actually felt. Something about the way this woman looked right through him that made him uneasy.

"I think my readers are interested in your life, the events that led you up to that night on the bridge, the situation with your father."

"I'm sure they are. But I'm not going to talk about it."

"You can trust me to tell your story."

"There's no story to tell. You can ask whatever questions you want, but I'm telling you, my answer to everything not relevant is going to be 'No comment,' so let's not waste our time."

Trista stood up. "I'm sorry that you've already wasted this much of my time. If I'd known the scope of the interview was so limited, I never would have agreed to it. A cub reporter on the police beat could do this."

Logan rolled his eyes but then gasped as Veronica's sharp elbow caught him in the ribs.

"Logan," she hissed, "this is important. You have to do this."

"Trista, wait," called Logan as he stood up. The reporter turned and looked at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry there was a misunderstanding, or whatever, but my lawyer and Veronica here will kill me if this story doesn't get written. We....I want you to write it."

"If you want me to write it, then you have to give me a little more than just a plea for witnesses."

"Look, I'll give you as much as I can. But how about if I promise to do an interview with you in the future, some day when I have my own actual accomplishment and life to talk about? I promise you an exclusive." Logan turned on his most charming smile.

Trista smiled back, then held out her hand for a shake. "All right, but I am going to hold you to this promise."

"I expect nothing less," replied Logan, giving her hand a firm shake, feeling in some ways like he was sealing a deal with the devil.

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"Getting an F on his business plan was probably the best thing that ever happened to Logan," says his longtime friend and CIO Cindy Mackenzie. "It made him determined to prove himself."

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Trista Teller smiled when she saw the name associated with . The company's Initial Public Offering had just recorded stock prices not seen since the heady pre-bubble early Internet days.

Logan Echolls. If this didn't qualify as an accomplishment, Trista didn't know what would.

She called the number for the PR firm listed on the press release, and then got to work drawing up questions and making a list of research items to prepare for the interview. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

"Trista Teller? It's Logan Echolls, returning your call."

"Logan, I knew you'd be a man who remembers and honors his promises."

"Remembers, yes. Honors, also yes, but not quite yet on this one."

"What do you mean, Logan? The promise was an interview when you had an achievement of your own. Your stock closed at $80 a share yesterday. I'd say that's a mighty big achievement."

"It was a happy day for us around here, but my seed money was my inheritance. I want an accomplishment that's all my own."

Trista heard resentment and steel in Logan's voice and knew there was no point in arguing with him. He swore to honor his promise in the future and she just hoped that she wouldn't have to wait too long.

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Veronica Mars is a petite woman, who even in her early 30s wouldn't look out of place on a high school pep squad. Don't be fooled by the sparkling smile. She guards her man and their privacy with the ferocity of a mama bear protecting cubs.

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Trista had hoped that Logan's wedding to Veronica Mars would fall into the accomplishment category, but he didn't seem inclined to talk about his personal life. Their wedding had been a private affair on a yacht, attended by only a limited number of family and close friends.

But in Veronica, Trista hoped to find an ally, someone who would help her get closer to Logan and closer to the story. Trista took to walking her dog in the neighborhood where the couple had settled.

Several weeks after the wedding, Trista saw her chance as Veronica pulled into the driveway and lifted two bags of groceries from the trunk of her car.

"Veronica, congratulations on the wedding," said Trista as she stepped across the lawn to close the gap between them.

"Thanks," said Veronica, her eyes narrowing as recognition dawned on her face.

"A lot of people thought it would never happen."

"Well, as my Nana Mars used to say 'Course of true love never did run smooth.' You know what else she used to say?'

Trista pulled a notebook from her purse. "No, what?"

"Get off my fucking grass or I'll call the fucking police. And if they're too slow, I'll shoot you my damn self."

Trista stepped back uncertainly, stopping only when she felt the smooth, hard surface of the sidewalk.

"Nana had a potty mouth, but she was still a lovely lady," said Veronica with a dazzling smile and a charming little aw-shucks shrug.

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Our interview takes place in the backyard of Logan's home. Although the house itself is modest and small, the backyard is a tropical paradise with a pool and carefully tended landscaping. We sit at a round table that wouldn't look out of place in a palazzo in Italy.

On the other side of sliding glass doors is the kitchen, where Logan's pregnant wife is making dinner. As we talk, Logan frequently looks up and watches her, a small smile lighting up his face.

"What changed my life? She's in there, making manicotti."

When asked what the best part of being married is, Logan does not hesitate. "The calm. The absolutely predictable calm."

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In fifth grade, Logan was into science in a big way. Maybe it was because Veronica was his lab partner and she insisted that he do his half of the work. Maybe it was because they dissected a cow heart. Or maybe it was just because science seemed to promise certainty and answers.

Logan loved the idea of the scientific method, the idea that you could formulate a hypothesis and then collect data to prove or disprove it. With enough data, you could recognize a predictable pattern.

When his father was home, Logan felt like he was living inside a hurricane. Some days, he was in the thick of the storm, feeling the need to board up the windows and hunker down to survive. Other days, he was inside the eye, a brief respite of clear skies before the storm clouds gathered again.

Logan wondered if he could learn to predict the storm days. He bought a black and white composition book, filled the first several pages with class notes and then began recording his data: everything he said and did each day and the results on his father's behavior.

Each week, he made a graph to try to find a pattern. After a few months, a pattern still hadn't emerged but he held onto the hope that he just needed more data, what their science teacher called a larger sample size.

One afternoon, Logan and Veronica were in the school library, working on their science fair project. She sent him into the stacks to collect a few books, an errand that took longer than he expected. When he returned to the table, he found Veronica reading his experiment records. She looked up at him.

"My dad can help you," she said.

"No one can help me."

"My dad can. Really, Logan, he can."

He rolled his eyes and sat down across from her. She reached across shyly and put her hand on top of his. Logan looked up at her earnest expression and wanted to believe, wanted to have the faith that she had in her father.

"He's the sheriff. And this is illegal and wrong. He can help you, if you let him."

"Do you really think it works that way?" asked Logan.

Veronica nodded.

"It doesn't. Remember Mrs. Carter?"

"Our third grade teacher?"

"Yeah. She called social services. This investigator came out to the house to investigate, but at the end, my dad was signing autographs for her. Then, right after spring break, Mrs. Carter didn't have a job at our school anymore."

"But my dad's not like that."

Logan shook his head slowly. "Don't worry about me. After I figure out the pattern, then I'll know when to hide and what not to say and it will all be fine," said Logan with more confidence than he felt.

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Joshua's Place is a splendid old Victorian manor. An imposing house with a wrap-around porch is the centerpiece and serves as the living areas for the children. The stables and outbuildings have been converted into offices for the support staff. Logan has employed every specialist imaginable: social workers, psychologists, coaches, lawyers, even a private investigator to collect evidence to use in hearings.

The name comes from the case of Joshua Delancy, the ten-year-old boy who was killed by his father after social services closed his case. Logan says that the mission is simple: "Keep that from happening to another kid."

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Trista Teller was the exception to the general rule of the Internet age. She preferred to do her research with actual news clips and paper than with a browser and search engine. She was just old enough to have cut her teeth in the morgue at The Times, sifting through stacks of manila folders looking for background information.

When Logan sent her a press release for Joshua's Place along with his private cell phone number, she had a feeling that this charitable foundation was more than just a tax shelter or a grandiose attempt at leaving a legacy. But proving it was going to be difficult.

She headed to The Times and sweet-talked her way into the morgue, thankful that the reference librarian refused to go over to digital. She didn't know how the librarian had avoided the budget cuts and buyout offers, but was happy that she had.

Trista spent a long night, reviewing every scrap of paper in the Aaron Echolls file. She was a little surprised to find that Logan had his own, albeit thinner, file. She flipped through the pages, finding generally what she expected: clips on the Lilly Kane murder investigation and the killing on the bridge.

The oldest clip was about a bicycle accident Logan had at age ten. Serious enough to land him in the hospital with a broken arm and fractured skull.

Trista's eyes skimmed the date on the article. She closed the folder and was pushing it away when the last puzzle piece clicked into place in her head. She pulled the folder back and took out the bicycle accident article. Then she opened Aaron's file and found the article that quoted Logan on the People magazine Sexiest Man Alive award. It was dated two days before the accident.

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When asked if he has any advice for kids in abusive situations, Logan looks down at the flagstones like he might find the answers written on them. Seconds turn into uncomfortable minutes and the human impulse is to jump in and redirect the conversation. But from the look on his face, it's clear that Logan is both remembering and choosing his words carefully.

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His father hit him first with the newspaper, but soon moved on to heavier ammunition. With the blood pounding in his ears, Logan could only catch parts of his father's angry tirade. Something about how Logan would always be living in his shadow and until he had an accomplishment of his own, he'd better get used to saying "No comment."

In fact, his father demanded that he say it then and there, the way a schoolyard bully would demand that you say "Uncle." Logan shouted "No comment" until his voice was just a hoarse whisper, but his father wouldn't stop.

Logan didn't know how much time had passed. Minutes, for sure, but he didn't know how many and he was beginning to think it didn't matter. Another blow landed on his face and his head snapped back, the force sending him down hard. His head bounced off the cold tile.

"Get up and say it again, because I don't think it's gotten into your thick skull yet." His father wasn't shouting anymore. Now it was all just icy menace that would have scared Logan if he'd been able to feel anything. But his body had blessedly gone into protection mode and all he felt was numb.

Logan struggled to sit up, then scrambled to his knees. Nausea gripped him, but he still pulled himself upright. Just as his father stepped closer to him, Logan leaned over and vomited on the floor, wincing as he realized that some of it had splashed on his father's shoes.

Enraged and disgusted, Aaron stepped around and lifted the boy off the ground by his shirt. Logan saw a fist and closed his eyes, hoping that somehow, it would all be over soon.

He thought of a hurricane and imagined that he was being blown off his feet by the wind, his arms wrapped around the trunk of a palm tree. Logan could nearly feel the rough bark of the tree in his hands and hear the wind howling in his ears. He felt the bark slipping and then he was flying through the air, his flight stopped by a leather couch.

"Hold on, Logan, hold on." Veronica's voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance.

He managed to open one eye and saw Veronica standing over him, her pink shirt covered in blood. She reached down and he felt her warm hand on his clammy forehead. He tried to smile but could see it was doing nothing to reassure her. Logan closed his eyes and just listened.

He could hear the commotion of paramedics, bursting into the house with a stretcher. He heard his father insisting that he'd just had a bicycle accident. Then he heard one of the paramedics talking to Veronica.

"Honey, you did great, but I need you to step aside now, so I can help him"

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"Hold on," says Logan finally. "I'd just tell the kid to hold on."

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End file.
